The King of Los Santos pt 1
by TheLayer0p
Summary: Los Santos is under new management.
1. Chapter 1

The King of Los Santos

"Remind me why we're here again."

"The King wanted this done, and the King's word is law."

"I don't remember voting for no king…"

The two hulking men stood on the docks at the edge of the city, the nighttime skyline of Los Santos glittering in the distance. Far out in the darkness, the giant white letters that spelt out 'vinewood' could be seen. The smaller thug pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit it lazily, while the other yawned sleepily.

"Alright, let's get this shit over with." the smaller thug said after a few drags on his cigarette.

"Why do they call him the King, anyway?" the second thug wondered aloud, popping the trunk of their car and hoisting a body out and onto his shoulders.

"Don't nothing happen in this city that he ain't heard of," the first replied, dropping and stepping on his cigarette, "They say he's got spies everywhere, and the best crew money can buy."

"Who's the best crew money can buy?"

"Well," the first thug began, "You got the King, the guy calling the shots; this kid from Jersey, the one who takes the shots; there's some chick called the Beard, I didn't ask why; some British kid who has a tendency to fuck shit up; Haywood, a complete fucking psycho from what I've heard; and then the Brown Man."

"The Brown Man?" the second thug said, sliding the body off of his shoulder and into the water below, "What the fuck's a Brown Man?"

"The heavy hitter, from what I heard," the first thug told him, dropping his body as well, "He's the guy they call when the shit hits the fan. Hence the name."

"So how did this guy get to be the King?" the second thug asked, picking up another body from the trunk.

"He ain't no normal criminal, from what I heard," the first said, lighting another cigarette, "He only does high profile jobs, real big shit. Drugs, mostly, though he does tamper with the occasional jury. He managed to eliminate all of his competition faster than anyone had ever seen. When no one else would step forward, he became the King.

"But, word on the street is he's slipping: losing his touch. People say he's getting bored sitting on top of the world, and there are some people who are climbing up to take his spot."

"Do you think it's true?"

"I don't give a fuck who wears the crown, or whatever the fuck they call it, just so long as I get paid on time. Let's get this shit over with so I can go back the fuck to sleep."

"I hear that man," the second thug agreed, his eyes drooping. He returned to the trunk and fished out yet another body, this one much smaller than the others. The splashing of bodies punctuating the silence periodically, and the two men worked in almost complete darkness, save for the occasional glowing tip of a cigarette. When they had finished unloading the corpses, they squeezed back into their beat-up, unremarkable sedan.

"What did you mean when you said the King is getting bored?" the larger thug asked the other while he started the car.

"I don't fucking know man," he replied, "He's getting tired of all this shit. He's having his crew do stupid fucking jobs that don't pay for shit. He's making 'em jump through fucking hoops just to keep a smile on his face. He's dunking their goddamn heads in toilets 'cause he's just fucking twiddling his fucking thumbs otherwise. And his people getting pretty damn fed up with his shit."

"Why doesn't anyone do anything about it?"

"Because he's still the fucking head honcho," the first thug said, turning in his seat to back up the car, "While he's calling the shots, no one's gonna do shit to fuck with him. It's fucking suicide, man. But, that Haywood guy, the nutjob; if anyone would fuck with the King, it'd be him. Only problem is, he'd have to go through the beard, the kid from Jersey, and the Brown Man. Haywood's off his fucking rocker, but he ain't no idiot. And the british fucker ain't got no chance in hell. It'd take all five of 'em just to get near him."

"Crazier things have happened," the second thug mused.

"Welcome to Los Fucking Santos."


	2. Chapter 2

The Brown Man

The sea swayed gently in the breeze twenty or so feet below the pier. Behind him, the Brown Man could hear the shouts and laughter of children as he leaned against the rickety wooden railing. The air was thick with the smell of funnel cakes and tobacco.

"Welcome to Los Fucking Santos," he muttered to himself, turning his head to watch a biker race by. He had been working the city for nearly three months, and nothing seemed to surprise him anymore. He knew every dealer, every shady character, every whore, gambler, and addict in the city, he had contacts in every organization you could name, and he was right hand man to the King. _Some fucking gig that is_, he thought bitterly to himself. He used to be the pinch hitter, the guy who got called when no one else was qualified.

Working for the King used to mean something. The Brown Man thought back to the first job he pulled for the King, back when he had been plucked fresh from the streets of Liberty City. He remembered first meeting the King in person, along with Haywood and Jones, and being told what the score was.

"Cocaine," the King had told him, unceremoniously shoving a rifle into his hands, "and lots of it. If you do this right, you may have a future here."

That was an all-around shitty job. The risk was too great for the reward, they were sent halfway around Los Santos County just to pick up a few pounds of blow, but the King had neglected to tell them that they were lifting it from a separate dealer. That should have been the first sign that things were not all right in the kingdom. Then there was the problem with the jury. Someone, somewhere, had gotten hold of some pretty damning evidence; evidence that would have put the King away for a very long time. The King had his crew set out to kill the jury, so the case couldn't proceed.

"Kill 'em," the King had said, "kill 'em all, kill 'em quickly, and kill 'em now." He stood before the five of them, pouring some drink smelling of strong alcohol into a glass, some drink the Brown Man had never had a taste for. He didn't adhere to a lot of vices, despite his occupation, something his associates had lots of fun reminding him of. While they would venture into the city and wake up in some alleyway the next morning, cocaine under their noses and hangovers in their heads, he would sit at home, smoke a little weed and end up passing out at midnight.

They had done what he said and killed the jurors, of course. If you cross the King, the best course of action would be to put a bullet in your skull. God knows the King wouldn't be that merciful. After that whole fiasco, they had to lay low for a while, let the trail disappear. Just when he thought he was in the clear, the Brown Man got a call from the King himself. That was when the Christmas Raids became a reality.

The Christmas Raids were the first time any of them had moved meth, except for maybe Haywood, but it was an unspoken rule that nobody brought up his past. Everyone knew there was a reason he wore the skull, but no one wanted to know what that reason was. The product was a massive haul, worth more than anything they had ever done before, and no dealers or suppliers wanted to fuck with anything the King had going on in his company. The problem was the feds. They showed up almost instantly when the cargo was taken, and chased the crew halfway through Blaine County. There was so much product that one run wasn't enough, so they ended up making four separate deliveries. After all the stupid, dangerous shit the King had put his crew through, maybe now they would have made it far enough to call the whole thing quits, but that was when thing started to get really fucking dumb.

Now, instead of lifting property from some undeserving celebrity, or manufacturing some new drug to sell to the impressionable youth of the day, the King was having them dance for his entertainment. He was getting bored, and his crew were getting fed up.

"And now I'm right fucking here." The Brown Man grumbled softly, turning away from the soft shifting of the ocean and beginning to meander over to the Ferris wheel. He watched children run past him, pure joy on their faces, and their overweight parents waddling behind them, struggling to keep up. He saw a few couples sitting together outside food stalls, some of them still in the honeymoon phase, others well past it. Here and there was the occasional jogger, earbuds in, music blaring loud enough to hear from where he walked.

Hands in his pockets, he sauntered up to the ticket collector working the Ferris wheel.

"Tickets sir?" the pockmarked teenager said lazily, looking up from some stupid gossip magazine and holding out his hand.

"I don't have any tickets."

"No tickets, no ride." The kid said, annoyed, picking up his magazine and reading again.

"How about now?" the Brown Man said, opening up one side of his jacket and making the 9 mm resting there visible.

"Look, man," the attendant said quickly, backing into the Ferris wheel's deck, "I don't want no trouble, you can ride if you want, they just told me to say that shit! I can't even do anything if you get on the ride without paying! This walkie talkie is a freaking toy, man!"

"Thank you," the Brown Man said, stuffing his hand back into his pocket and taking a seat in one of the carts on the wheel. He sat there for a few minutes, waiting for the ride to start again. When it did, he swayed slightly in his chair and watched as the pier fell away from beneath him. He looked to the side of the car, and watched the sun setting on the horizon, painting the sky a vivid series of red, orange, pink, and blue. When he had gotten near the top of the wheel, he stood in his car and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. He took a panoramic of the pier and the city near it, just like the King told him to, and then hesitated a fraction of a second before flipping the camera and taking a selfie. He stood alone, looking at his face suspended on the little screen, the last glimmers of sunlight casting strange reflections on his image.

"Fuck this shit, man." He said aloud when he had passed the top of the wheel. He sat back down and waited for the ride to end. When he stepped out of the car, he began to walk away when the attendant meekly called out after him, "Have a good day sir!"

The Brown Man paused for a second, before turning and responding, "You know, I think I did have a ticket." He reached into his jacket, pulled out the gun, levelled it at the attendant, and pulled the trigger. When the body hit the pier, he turned and walked away, not once breaking stride.

"Some fucking gig this is," he smirked to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Haywood

"Now, I don't necessarily want to do this," the cold eyes peered out of the skull, "but I don't necessarily have any problems doing it. Do you understand?"

"I swear," the man tied to the chair pleaded, "I don't know what you're talking about. I just deliver mail, I don't have anything to do with any cartels!"

"I don't appreciate you lying to me," the skull sighed.

Haywood took a few steps away form his captive, out of the light cast by the single bulb dangling from the ceiling. He reached up and pulled the skull off of his head, sweat dripping down his bare scalp. He wiped the perspiration out of his eyes and set about organizing his tools. On a small workbench in the corner of the cramped room, there were several pairs of pliers, a hammer, several large knives, a six shot revolver, and a rag. Underneath the bench were several objects hidden in shadow.

"I promise," the man in the chair pleaded, "I don't have any connection to any drugs!"

"Every promise has a loophole," Haywood mused, running his hands along his tools, "and every loophole can be exploited." That was why the King took an interest in him; he was the loophole guy. Though he had heard other names whispered about him. Names that weren't always flattering. He finally decided on one of the pliers, picking it up and twirling it in his hands before walking back to the man in the chair. When he stepped back into the light, his bald head became completely visible, his eyes dark in their sockets underneath his hairless forehead. He took a handful of the man's hair in his free hand and yanked back hard, exposing his captive's neck and forcing him to stare at the uncovered light bulb.

"Please!" the man gasped for breath, spittle leaking out the corners of his mouth, "I swear to god you have the wrong guy!"

"I'm not an idiot," Haywood said, leveling the pliers in the man's face, "So please don't treat me like one." With that, he stuffed the pliers in the man's mouth and found a tooth. He gave it a few gentle twists to listen to the man scream, and then pulled sharply. The tooth came free with a sickening _pop_, and a single spurt of blood left the man's mouth, giving way to a steady trickle. The man rubbed his tongue in the spot the tooth occupied, gently trying to stop the bleeding.

"So," Haywood said, leaning on his workbench in the shadow and staring intently at his victim, "Are you ready to talk yet? Because, honestly, I could stand to do that a lot more often. If you want to go another round, believe me I am very willing."

"I don't know about any drug deals, I swear," the man cried, tears and blood mixing on his chin.

"If you say so," Haywood smiled, replacing the pliers he was holding and retrieving a larger pair.

"But!" the man in the chair quickly shouted, "But, I do know about the cartels! I'm one of their gun runners, I don't handle the drugs though, I swear!"

"And there's the loophole," Haywood said to himself, "What is the cartel doing moving into the city? This town belongs to the King, El Bitcho Grande knows that."

"I don't know what he's planning, I just know he wants what the King has, and he has the means to get it."

"The King doesn't like to share," Haywood said, "And I seriously doubt that any drug addled 'kingpin' could even touch the operation that we have got going on here. So you go run to your boss and tell him his little crew can't do anything in this city without the King's permission."

"My boss isn't going to like that." the man in the chair said weakly.

"Tough shit." Haywood said, leaning in so the two men's noses were inches from each other. The man in the chair stared into Haywood's cold, pale eyes, desperate to find any emotion hidden in them. Then Haywood began to laugh.

"What kinds of plans does your boss have?" Haywood said in between chuckles, "And don't lie to me, you know how I don't like that."

"Like I said, I run guns for the cartel," the man in the chair said slowly, "I know he's been spreading them out, and lots of them. He's got lots of runners on the streets, more than I've ever seen. He's arming his crews, and he's getting ready for war."

"War, huh?" Haywood mumbled to himself, turning out of the light and stroking his hairless chin thoughtfully, "War could be interesting. Interesting is good." Suddenly a cell phone began ringing somewhere in the dim room. Haywood quickly found the phone and answered the call.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver, "Yeah... Yeah... I'm taking care of it as we speak... No, it was just a rumor.. Yeah... Yeah, I'm sure... Yeah... Alright, I'll get it done."

He hung up the phone and returned it to its original location. He walked back up to the man in the chair and stood just out of the light. "What does your boss want before he starts moving in?"

"I don't know," the man in the chair smirked, "I'm not important enough to be told anything."

"Alright," Haywood said, leaning in again, "If we're going to play these games, we're going to play by my rules." He went back to the workbench and slipped the skull back onto his head. He picked up the rag and laid it over the man in the chair's eyes.

"Hey, man," the man started to squirm in his bindings, "I didn't mean anything by that, honestly. I swear I couldn't tell you what my boss has in mind even if I knew."

"Long live the King," Haywood said, ignoring the man's pleas and dousing him in some foul smelling liquid. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag and then deposited it the the man's mouth. The man inhaled nervously, and then burst into a ball of screaming flames. The fireball rocked gently back and forth while Haywood watched, his eyes cold and gleeful behind his mask.

When the man had finally stopped screaming and the fire had died, Haywood returned to the cell phone, typed in a number, and held it up to his ear.

"Yeah, it's me," he said when the call was answered, "It's done. Alright, I'm on my way."

He turned and walked to the door, looking back at the charred body one last time before flipping the light switch and swinging the door shut behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Flynt Coal

The precinct was abuzz with the sounds of phones ringing and being answered, keyboards typing away, and officers walking to and from their desks, barking orders at the rookies under their charge. Lieutenant Flynt Coal was desperately trying to block out the noise and fight off the encroaching migraine when someone called out his name.

"Coal! Coffee!"

_Great, _Coal thought to himself, _just what I need right now. _Not that he actually said that to the officer who handed him the plain white Styrofoam cup. He sipped gently at the coffee and grimaced at its bitterness. He set the drink down on his desk and looked back at the map he had been trying to study. He had tacked a map of Los Santos to the wall, and had placed push pins in all of the crime scenes that he had been investigating.

"If you are a King," he said to himself, "Where is your throne?" The push pins were scattered all over the map, and there was no pattern that he could see. He had been to every single crime scene, and every one was the same: no survivors, no evidence, and no clear motive. He rubbed the dark circles that hung under his eyes, and tried to flatten down his wiry black hair. He turned back to his desk and picked up the case file for the jury killings, absentmindedly flipping through the pages when another officer came up to him.

"Flynt," the short officer said quickly, "Commissioner wants to see you in his office yesterday."

"Alright," Flynt sighed heavily, "I'm going." He made the short walk through the scattered group of desks and knocked on the paneled wood door with the words 'Commissioner Burns.' "It's open!" a voice yelled form inside. Flynt opened the door and slipped inside.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Actually, that was us." there were two men sitting in front of he commissioner's desk, both wearing identical white button down shirts, black suspenders, and black sunglasses. The one who spoke had a decent amount of beard on his chin and a toothpick in his mouth, and his hair was dark, thick, and curly. The other was thin and had wild, untamed hair.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" Flynt asked sleepily.

"As it just so happens," the man with the toothpick said, "We believe you can, lieutenant. We are here from the FBI, and we have been told that you are looking for the same man as us. The King."

"What do you need from me?"

"Your help," the man told him, "We have hit a bit of a dead end with our investigation, and since you know this city far better than us, we figured we could rely on your knowledge and help. We would be willing to grant you a temporary position in the FBI, though if things go well, certain arrangements could be made for a more permanent position."

"I would be happy to help you in any way I can, agents," Flynt began, "But I haven't made very much progress in the case either."

"I'm sure we can figure out a direction to take this investigation, agent Coal." the man with the toothpick said, standing up. His partner, not saying a word, followed suit. They silently walked out of the office, the thin man handing Coal a business card with just a number printed on it. "You'll be hearing from us soon." he said just before the door shut between them.


End file.
